Читать книгу The Yellow Snake, or The Black Tenth - Edgar Wallace - Страница 10

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Joan Bray was an early riser from necessity. Her position in the Narth household had been reached by a series of drifts—mainly in the direction of the servants' hall. Mr Narth did not employ a housekeeper: it was an unnecessary expense in view of the fact that Joan was available; and gradually she had accumulated all the responsibilities of an upper servant, without any of the emoluments. She was, in fact, a liaison officer between the pantry and the parlour. It was she who had to arrange the monthly settlements with tradesmen, and confront the raging protests of a man who regarded household expenses as an unnecessary waste of money.

So fully occupied was her day that she had formed the habit of rising at six and taking an hour in the open before the household was awake. The rain of the previous day had left the ground wet and the air cold, but it was such a morning as invited the feet of youth, for the sky was blue, save where it was flecked by a lacing of white cloud.

This morning she had a special objective. The tremendous happening at Slaters' Cottage was the talk of Sunningdale. From her window on the previous evening she had seen the loaded trolleys disappearing into the wood, and the night had provided a strange and fascinating spectacle. She lived near enough to the Slaters' Cottage to hear the sound of hammer and pick, and she had seen the trees silhouetted against the blinding radiance of the naphtha lamps.

Mr Narth had also been an uncomfortable witness of this extraordinary activity, and had made a journey late at night to the Slaters' Cottage, there to discover the extent of Clifford Lynne's folly. So far, Joan had learnt of these doings at third hand. The early morning offered an opportunity for a more intimate investigation, and she diverged from the road to satisfy her curiosity. She could not go far; a gang of men were tearing up the path. Three laden lorries were parked unevenly before the cottage, which was alive with men, and reminded her of a troubled ant-hill. The local builder, whom she knew, came up with a smile.

"What do you think of this, Miss Joan—a thousand pounds worth of repair work on a hundred pound cottage!"

She could only look and wonder. In the night, the roof had been stripped of slates and supporting beams, so that only the bare shell of the cottage remained.

"We got the floors out and the pipes laid by four o'clock," said the builder proudly. "I've hired every labourer within twenty miles."

"But why on earth is Mr Lynne doing all this?" she asked.

"You know him, Miss?" asked the man, in surprise, and she went red. It was impossible to explain that the Slaters' Cottage was to be her home (as she believed) and that his eccentric employer was her future husband.

"Yes, I know him," she said awkwardly. "He is—a friend of mine."

"Oh!"

Evidently this statement checked a certain frankness on the part of Mr Carter. Joan could almost guess what he would have said.

She was smiling as she came back to the road. This freakish and feverish rebuilding of Slaters' Cottage was exactly the thing she would have expected from Clifford Lynne. Why she should, she did not know. Only it seemed as though he had been especially revealed to her; that she alone of the family understood him.

She heard a clatter of hoofs behind her, and moved to the side of the road.

"Bon jour—which I understand is French!"

She turned, startled. It was the man who at that moment was in her thoughts. He was riding a shaggy old pony, sleepy-eyed, almost as dishevelled as himself.

"What an awful trouble you must have had to find a horse that matched you!" she said. "I've seen your car—that was a perfect fit!"

Clifford Lynne's eyes puckered as though he was laughing, but no sound came; yet she could have sworn he was shaking with laughter.

"You're very rude," he said, as he slipped from the pony's back, "and offensive! But don't let us start quarrelling before we are married. And where did you see the car?"

She did not answer this.

"Why are you rebuilding this awful old cottage?" she asked. "Mr Carter said it will cost you thousands."

He looked at her for a little while without speaking, fingering his beard.

"I thought I would," he said absently. "I'm kind of eccentric. Living in a hot climate for so long may have affected my brain. I've known lots of fellows go like that! It's rather romantic, too," he mused. "I thought I'd get some climbing roses and honeysuckle, and perhaps run a cabbage patch and chickens—are you fond of chickens?" he asked innocently. "Black Dorkings or White Wyandottes, or vice versa? Or ducks perhaps?"

They had reached the end of the road, the shaggy pony following obediently.

"Old Mr Bray was rather set on your marrying one of our family, wasn't he?" she asked, so unexpectedly that for the moment he was taken aback.

"Why, yes," he said.

"And you were awfully fond of Mr Bray?"

He nodded.

"Yes, I think so. You see, we lived together for so long, and he was a likeable old devil. And he nursed me through cholera, and if it hadn't been for him I should have pegged out—which is Spanish for died. I certainly liked him."

"You liked him so much," she challenged, "that when he asked you to come to England and marry one of his relations, you promised—"

"Not immediately," he pleaded. "I made no promise for an awful long time. To tell you the truth, I thought he was mad."

"But you did promise," she insisted. "And shall I tell you something else you promised?"

He was silent.

"You told poor Mr Bray you would say nothing that would make the girl reject you and spoil his plans!"

Only for a moment was the bearded man embarrassed.

"Clairvoyance was never a favourite science with me," he said. "It's too near witchcraft. I knew an old woman up in Kung-chang-fu who—"

"Don't try to turn the subject, Mr Lynne. You promised Mr Bray that when his relations produced a girl of the family for you to marry, you would say nothing which would make her change her mind, that you would in fact express no unwillingness to marry."

He fondled his invisible chin.

"Well, maybe you're right," he confessed. "But I've said nothing," he added quickly. "Have I told you that I'm not a marrying man, and loathe the idea of matrimony? Have I told you how poor old Joe has blighted my young life? Have I gone on my knees and begged you to refuse me? Own up, Joan Bray!"

She shook her head; the smile that was in her eyes was now twitching at her lips.

"You've said nothing, but you've made yourself look a scarecrow."

"And fearfully repulsive?" he asked hopefully.

She shook her head.

"Not quite. I'm going to marry you; I suppose you know that?"

The gloom in his face was such that she could have smacked him.

"I don't want to marry you, of course," she said tartly, "but there are—there are reasons."

"Old Narth has forced you into it," he said accusingly.

"Just as old Mr Bray forced you into it," she replied at once. "It is a queer position, and it would be tragic if it wasn't laughable. I don't know what's going to happen, but there's one thing I wish you to do."

"What is that?" he asked.

"Go to a barber's and have that ridiculous beard shaved," she said. "I want to see what you look like."

He sighed wearily.

"In that case I'm booked," he said. "Once you see my face you will never, never give me up. I was the best-looking man in China."

He held out his hand.

"Congratulations," he said simply, and she dissolved into laughter, and was still laughing when she came up the drive and met Mr Narth's suspicious frown.